This is my first attempt at telling a story from the female perspective. I will be anxious to see what you think of the effort. Thanks and enjoy.
I was a little nervous; no, anxious more than nervous or apprehensive is a better word for the way I was feeling. After all, this was the biggest day of my life to this point and all of the art world would be looking at me, or at least my work. I was to open my showing at a prestigious New York art gallery this very evening and I just wished it was all over and everyone loved my work, that’s all. I had every reason to believe that they would, everyone always does, but I just wanted tonight to be over.
I am a 27 year old artist in oils, I am, what you would call, a prodigy and have been in the spot light before, but never to this extent. This particular galley in The City was different from the regional acclaim I was used to. As the song goes, “If I can make it here, I can make it any where,” so this is a big test. As I got out of the limo that the galley has provided for me this evening, I could not help but wonder what The Master, my mentor, would be saying right now if he were still alive. I can hear him now, “Child, you have to paint with feeling, always with feeling.” Well, I tried to.
I met him when I entered a “Talented Artists” competition back in my childhood; when I was 12 to be exact. I was the only girl in the contest and I submitted my best work. I still remember the painting, although I don’t remember what happened to it. It was of a Saint Bernard puppy, sitting on its haunches, looking over its shoulder at the viewer. I had won several prizes with it in local competitions but to actually enter it in a national contest; well some people thought that I was in a little over my head.
First prize was a four session instruction series with The Master, the most famous artist of the day in the United States, or the World for that matter, and I wanted to win this so badly. After two days of judging, I received a phone call from the contest organizer telling me that I had won first place and I was on cloud nine for the rest of the time before the actual sessions started. I traveled to Chicago to finally meet with my idol, The Master, and as I approached him with my heart beating rapidly in my chest, he managed to dash all pre-conceived images I had built up over my time of worship of this great man.
“You are the child that knows no feeling!” he spat at me in disgust. “Your silly puppy was so void of feelings it was preposterous. Don’t you feel any love for that young dog? Why can’t you paint it then? That will be my first lesson then, feelings, you must paint with feelings! Tomorrow, come back up here and be prepared to express your feelings! Now go and come back tomorrow.” With that admonition fresh in my mind, I turned and left his temporary studio as I cried my eyes out. “How could he say that I didn’t paint with feelings? I have feelings!” I thought as I slowly walked back to the hotel and my mother who was there with me.
I spent that evening brooding, instead of joyously wandering with my mother seeing the sights of the Windy City. How could this man question my feelings, my heart or my painting? What right does he have judging ME! In other words, I was a 12 year old brat, throwing a tantrum. Someone had told me that there was something that I could do to improve my art and it was the first time I had heard it. And it came from my idol.
The next morning I awoke with a sense of dread at seeing the monster again. My mother offered to go with me to his studio, but he had told me in no uncertain terms, “No one shall meet with us,” so I told her I would be okay. I reluctantly approached the temporary studio and rang the bell. “It’s open Child, I never lock it, it is always open,” he said in as cheerful of a voice as I had heard. “So you did come back to see me,” he smiled as he greeted me.
He was an old man, not older in the eyes of a 12 year old, but old. He had thinning white hair, his hands were all wrinkled and boney looking and he had trouble walking around his studio. He dressed, what do you say, “frumpy”, all disheveled, and mismatched. He looked old.
“Of course Master,” I said shyly as I walked in and started to sit on a stool.
“Don’t sit Child,” he instructed me. “I’ve decided that your first lesson is to be as my model for a painting.”
“A model, you want me to be a model for you?” I repeated incredulously. “For what painting?” I asked.
“I don’t know yet, I haven’t decided, but I want you to model for me. Now go into that room over there and change into the clothes hanging on the hanger in there. When you are ready, come on back out and we will get started,” he directed.
I let out a deep sigh of resentment and entered the room. It was more of a closet than a changing room it was so small. I found the clothes hanging from a knob attached to the wall and looked around for anything else. There was nothing in the room except the clothes; not a chair to sit on and no mirror or place to put the clothes I was wearing. I picked up the garments hanging on the knob and realized that there were just two items to put on, an outer garment and a pair of underwear. What’s going on here? Is this guy a pervert or something? If he thinks that I’m going to go out and parade around in this thing for his perverted pleasure then he has another think coming.
I sulked for a moment then picked up the dress. I held it up to look at it draping my body. My body wasn’t much to look. Being just 12 years old, I was starting my pubescent development which meant a swirling mixture of new hormones surging through my veins and strange lumps and curves starting to protrude out every where. And there was this strange little hairs that was growing out around my private area that I couldn’t make heads or tails out of. As much as I like to look at these changes in my body, I was very protective of allowing anyone else, even my mother, to see them. Now I had to make the decision as to whether to let this strange person see me in this attire.
It was not an easy choice, but my curiosity got the better of me so I stripped down to my nothings and pulled on the panties that were there and noticed that they were practically transparent. This almost was the game changer; I wouldn’t let anyone see me down there; no way! But I picked up the dress and slipped it over my head and as it settled down into place, I could feel it caress by body like it had been made to do that very thing. It clung to me like a loose fitting glove. It was deep cut in the bosom, barely covering my protruding little boobies and it snuggled tightly around my waist. Then it draped my hips and fell in its fullness down well below my knees. The fabric wasn’t see through in the slightest, but the way it was cut and the silkiness of the fabric made it accentuate every curve of my body. I felt beautiful wearing it so after much soul searching and almost a half hour, I opened the door and entered back into the studio.
The Master was seated at his easel, paint brush in hand, patiently waiting. As I came out of the changing room, he got up to inspect his creation. I stopped in front of a draped chair, thinking this was where I was suppose to model for him and waited for his visual inspection to stop. But as I waited, I could feel his narrow little, squinty eyes probe my body as if he was undressing me completely. I felt the rush of my modesty turn my flesh a pinkish tone as he circled me like I was some piece of meet waiting to be devoured. He continued to circle me, staring all the while at me. Feeling his stare on my unprotected breasts, over my hips and down my legs, I would catch a glimpse of his paint brush, clutched in his boney hand and he stroked his chin with the other.
He circled me for some period of time. It seemed like an eternity, but I was the one being visually molested. I jumped when he finally ordered me to sit in the chair and face him, taking his seat at his easel. I sat down on the draped chair as he studied my posture. Then he ordered me to turn slightly to my right. He continued to appraise the position and then he adjusted it a little more to the right. Finally he was satisfied with the angle I was sitting at, so he proceeded to visually place me in the position that he wanted; chin up, shoulders back, no shoulders slouched forward.
As he positioned me, he again began circling me as I was sitting in the chair, prodding me with his paint brush. I got a peek at it and recognized it as being a round Sable; probably a #12, with a very unusual handle. It was stocky, not tapered like regular brushes and was much shorter than any brush I had ever seen. It was about an inch or so in diameter and he would use it to position my chin, my shoulder turn or the display of my long hair. He would either tap me with it gently or actually move the part to the position that he wanted.
He startled me again with his voice as he directed me to get up and sit on the chair that was situated upon a pedestal. This stage height platform was directly behind the draped chair about four or five feet and was three or four feet above floor level. There were two stairs steps leading up to the pedestal and as I gained my footing upon it, I stood towering over him on the floor.
He directed me to take up the position I had left from the draped chair and as I struck the pose as nearly as I remembered, he came up to join me. He made some very minor adjustments to my positioning and then, with the end of his brush, he poked it gently at the top of the dress and, hooking it on the brush, he slowly moved it down so that it barely covered my nipples. They instantly sprang to attention by the stimulus of having the silky fabric slightly brushing against them and I could feel the blood rush to my face as I blushed a crimson color of red. I almost objected to this display that he was making of my body and then, before I could voice it, he was on to something else.
He walked back down off of the pedestal to the floor and resumed his position at the easel. Staring at me for the longest time, he approached my once again and told me, “Move your right foot up and place it on the seat next to you.”
Thinking over this last instruction, I felt I had to object, so I said, “But Master, if I do, you will be able to see my underwear.”
He slowly said, “Child, since this is our first session together, I will tell you this one time and ignore your interruption, I will not be questioned as I position you. I will not be seconded guessed by my models. If you insist on this your insolence, I will be forces to ask you to leave. Do I make myself perfectly clear in this matter? Now if you do not want to meet with these demands, then you are free to go. Make your decision.”
My brain swirled in confusion for a second, he wanted an answer. What do I want? I wanted to continue so I said, “I’m sorry Master,” and moved my right foot up to the seat.
Feeling his eyes move directly to my crotch, he told me, “Move your knee out wider,” and tapped my inner right knee with his brush. “Now the foot, place it further away from your body.” He stopped to check out the view he had directed and then he tapped the left leg on the knee, indicating that he wanted it out a little more.
I felt used by this man, my idol, he was visually molesting my body and I was powerless to stop it. I knew when he stared at my private area that he could see the little hair that I was growing down there just as I knew he could see my perky nipples barely covered by the top. I knew I was exposing these things to him but I couldn’t alter the fact that I was getting some perverse joy, satisfaction or thrill out of displaying these, heretofore, hidden treasures to him.
He tapped there on my left knee one more time and as I spread my legs apart a little more, he peered down under the skirt and looked directly up to my crotch. I inhaled slightly as I could feel his eyes right on my private part and he then straightened up and backed down towards his easel once again to stare with his head cocked to one side. As he spoke in a low voice, I detected the first quiver in his tone. He softly said, “Child, move your right wrist to your right knee and drape it over. That’s right, let it hang down freely.”
He stopped to look intently and then he told me, “Child, move your left hand down and place it on your left thigh, up close to your right hip; closer to your crotch. Now place it further between your legs almost touching your crotch. Right there, that’s perfect. Now don’t move.”
He walked around his easel and took up a bright brush and twirled it around in a mass of movement for a couple of moments and then he said, “You can go and get dressed now. I’m finished for the day.” With that he turned and left the room leaving me sitting there on the pedestal with my hand between my wide spread legs, panting like a crazed animal. It took me a couple of seconds to register that I had been dismissed and then I got up and did what I was told.
I came out of the dressing room to see him leaving out the doorway. He turned to say, “I will be here tomorrow at the same time. Don’t be late” and he walked out of the door leaving me standing in the vacant room all alone. I finally caught my breath and left the room for my hotel. I had the strangest feeling down in my private area and a tingling sensation all over.
The next day came and I was in a surprisingly happy mood unlike the previous one. I felt no anxiety or foreboding, I just felt happy. I smiled all the way to the studio and when I arrived, he was already sitting at his easel, looking at his watch. “You’re late,” he growled. “I told you to be on time. Child you never listen to me when I speak. I said “On time” and I meant on time. Do I need to repeat myself?”
“No Master,” I said sheepishly, bowing my head.
“Good, now go into the room and get changed,” he barked. I did what I was told and felt foolish for being late. Tomorrow I’ll be early, just wait and see.
I went in and found the clothing just as I had left them but I noticed that they had been laundered. They smelled fresh and there was no trace of any other odor. I thought how strange that he laundered them after only being used once for a short period of time. I smoothed down the dress onto my lap and entered the studio. The Master was busy behind his easel. Hearing me come out, he told me to simply take your place on the chair, never looking up from his work.
I looked and saw that the draped chair had been moved up upon the pedestal replacing the extra one we used yesterday. As I climbed up and took my place, he asked, “Do you remember the pose exactly.”
“I think so,” I answered.
“You THINK so,” he snarled at me. “Do you or don’t you remember?”
“I remember,” I said and got myself into the pose.
“Child, I don’t want to snap at you but you’ve got to think about what you say. Do you understand?” he asked.
“Yes Sir,” I answered bowing my head again. I’ve never felt so inferior in my young life.
He looked at the pose very carefully and a slight grin briefly crossed his face. I saw it and felt better about myself. He walked slowly around me several times, observing the pose he put me in and looking at his model. Then he slowly approached me from the front and with his brush, started running the bristles up my leg.
The feeling of the sable hair bristles as it smoothly touch my inner thigh almost made me faint right away. I gulped out loud and stiffened up to meet the sensation of it all. I had that funny feeling come back to my private area. He removed the brush from my leg and laid it on the other one. He smoothly brushed from the knee backward toward my crotch as I shivered slightly. He stopped just inches away from making contact with it and then removed it once again.
He then ran it over my arm that was next to my crotch, being careful to make contact with only my arm. He proceeded on to the other arm and touched the bristles onto my skin. He never said a word but just slowly brushed the skin in my sensitive areas.
“Stand up and remove the dress,” he barked.
What was that he said, take off the dress? That would leave me only in the underwear that I was wearing. As he turned to walk back to his easel, I knew I had a split second to make up my mind as to what I was going to do, comply or leave.
My hands went down to the hem of the dress and began to raise it up over my head before I knew what they were doing. I held it at my breast for an instant and then released it to the floor. I stood there not know what I had done or what to do next. Without looking up from his easel, he said, “You may sit back down now and resume the pose Child.”
I did as I was told and I found the coldness of the chair on the back of my bare legs a new sensation, one that I think I enjoyed. I didn’t even think about him seeing my bare chest as I got into the pose, I guess I didn’t care any more. He stopped his work and approached me again carrying his brush. I secretly wanted him to brush me with it again; brush my boobies, my thighs and my arms. I wanted to experience his soft touch again. I was shivering with anticipation.
He climbed the steps onto the pedestal and walked behind me. I could feel his gaze as he looked down over my shoulder onto my little mounds. I didn’t have to see him looking at me; I could feel his eyes roaming all over my chest. Then he moved his brush over my shoulder and ran the bristles down to my little exposed nipples and I reacted with a sudden innate of air followed by a moan as it escaped my lips. I shut my eyes and I swear I could see stars. Over and over he ran the bristles upon my breasts; from the slightly protruding little mound to the erect nipples, he stimulated the skin as he brushed his smooth strokes upon them.
“Tell me what you feel, Child,” he whispered into my ear.
“I feel the brush,” I stammered.
“Tell me what you really feel, go deeper, not so surface,” he demanded.
I hesitated a moment, collecting my thoughts and then I said “I feel the brush on my boobies. I feel a tingling down in my tummy. I feel excitement at having them being touched by the brush,” I stopped to think, what else I was feeling. “I’m feeling good about you touching them with the brush,” I suddenly blurted out. Where did that come from? I was so embarrassed; I felt the blood rush to my face.
“Good Child, good,” he said reassuringly. “Now go in and change. We’re though for today,” and then he descended from the platform and went back to his easel and started to work some more.
“That’s it for the day?” I wanted to shout. “You got me all worked up and excited and now you want to work?” But instead, I got off of the chair and went to change back into my clothes. I was frustrated; I wanted more. I glanced at my watch and was shocked. It had been nearly three hours and my time was up. I had had a full session.
I walked home with that strange feeling deep within my private parts and I noticed a wet spot on the panties when I changed. I wondered where that came from; I didn’t think I wet my pants.
I was jolted back to reality by a gentleman greeting me warmly; as though he had known me my entire life, but I couldn’t place him at all. As I continued into the gallery, I was welcomed by a smattering of applause by people as they recognized me. The news of my arrival spread throughout gallery as the tenor of those in attendance began to rise. I felt alone all of a sudden and trapped in a place I didn’t want to be in. I was feeling a sense of panic, just as I felt on the third session with the Master.
The panic that I now felt was one of inevitability, I had to go through with it; too many people, friends and acquaintances, put their souls into this one night for me to bolt and run. Besides, where could I run to; this wasn’t my town, I was an honored guess. But in session three with The Master, I had a choice as to whether to attend or not and I clearly choose to attend. After the intense feelings I had after session two, you couldn’t have kept me away.
So as I entered the studio on the next day, I was so nervous I was shaking. He looked up and grunted his greeting and indicated with a nod of his head that he wanted me to go in and change my clothes. My heart was racing at I stripped down and put on the trappings of the two days before. I noticed that, just like yesterday, they were freshly laundered and ready for today’s use. I wondered how long it would be before I was asked to remove them or if I would soil the panties with my juices again.
I walked out to the studio on shaky legs and climbed the stairs to the chair. Without instructions, I sat down and assumed the pose and waited. The Master was busy at his easel, seemingly oblivious to my presences. After what seemed like an eternity, he put down his brush, looked up and walked towards me. He took his usual tour around me, occasionally correcting the pose a little as he went. As he approached the front of the chair, he took the bristled end of his #12, sable bright round brush and ran it up my thigh, lightly brushing my skin. I shuttered and inhaled loudly but never said a word.
He took his time painting my thighs with his brush and his delicate strokes. Over and over, ever so lightly, he would softly apply his proven brush stroke technique to my inner thighs up to, but never touching my private parts. I was going wild with pent up emotions over the thrill of receiving his sensuous stimulation as I awaited his next anticipated instructions. Finally it arrive as he said, “Child, you may rise and take off the dress.”
I hurriedly rose to my feet and disrobed down to the now dampish panties that I was wearing. I couldn’t help myself; my juices were flowing out of me in the most awkward place imaginable; right from between my legs. The see through underwear were now wet with my juices and I swore that I could smell a faint musty odor emanating from down there. I sat back down as he climbed the two steps up to join me on the pedestal.
I waited as he slowly made another tour around my position, taking his time as he observed the pose from all angles. I found myself holding my breath for the longest time, waiting, waiting for him to touch me, anywhere. My skin was tingling in anticipation as I continued to wait. Then, I caught, out of the corner of my eyes, a familiar object; it was the object I had learned to love because when ever he used it, a feeling of unbridled pleasure soon followed.
I felt the soft smooth stroke of The Master as he brushed along over my right nipple. I exhaled my held breath but quickly replaced it with a gulp of air as I recoiled from his sensuous approach. After a couple of strokes over the now hardened pebble, he switched to the other one, making it equally as hard. He then withdrew the brush and I did not see him again until he was standing down on the floor once again. He motioned for me to rise as he approached me with a look on his face that was a flat as any I had ever seen before. He moved to within two feet of me and looking straight ahead, he was staring directly at my crotch. He then ordered me in a husky voice, “Remove these,” and tapped at the waist band of the see through underwear.
My hands went down to the waist band as I was anxious to comply with his wishes, but he told me, “Slowly my child, slowly.” I didn’t care if my young body was developing or not. I couldn’t care less that I had just a tiny bit of pubic hair extending over my virgin lips. He had seen my little mounds that would grow into breasts, now I wanted to show him my most private part, my little cunny. I wanted him to stroke it with his magic wand.
I slowly pulled the panties down over my mound and then my hips, exposing to him for the first time unobstructed, my wet little lips and the hair that covered them. I slid them down to my ankles, stepping out of them completely and then stood there before his admiring eyes, shaking uncontrollably. He stared at me for the longest time not saying a word. He then walked around me slowly and as he was standing directly behind me, I felt the nudge of the paint brush on the inside of my knees indicating that he wanted me to separate them.
I complied by stepping one foot over a little and felt another tap on my knee. I repeated my move but it still wasn’t enough, so I spread them about two feet apart and then I felt the jolt hit me like a hammer. It was an unbelievable sensation, one that I am hard pressed to describe. It was like a hard hit to my crotch, but as soft as a baby’s kiss. It was like an electrical shock was sent up my legs into my junction but was as gentle as a warm summer breeze as it flowed over you. It was erotic and sensual yet soft and loving. It felt wonderful.
He used the bristles of the brush to lightly stroke up between my legs to that natural junction of them; right on my lips. Then he drug it up my crack, penetrating to the depths and stroking it over the rose bud, emerged up on the small of my back. I gasped out loud in a muffled cry to this sensation and shook uncontrollably as he ran the sable bristles over my most sensitive area. My knees almost buckled and I staggered forward just a little. I awaited a repeat but there was no sensation to follow.
He next appeared right in front of me, staring at my crotch. He then moved in and raised his brush once again. I saw it coming, I knew where he was aiming, but I couldn’t have known of the feeling he was about to expose me to. As he made contact with the brush on my cunny, he made it directly at my slit between my lips. Again I cried out in a muffled expression of pure joy that I was feeling. I didn’t know what lust felt like, but I soon learned to anticipate and enjoy it to its fullest.
As he ran the soft sable bristles of the brush up to a sensitive little node, I became unable to control myself. I started gasping for air and I opened my stance up to encourage him to penetrate my lips again and again. I had been never so wanting, so needy or so demanding in my entire 12 years on this earth. I wanted him to touch me in very inappropriate places. I wanted him to explore my body where it had never been explored, to take what I was willing to give to him. I wanted to…I didn’t know what I wanted him to do’ I just wanted him to do something. So when he withdrew the brush from the spot between my lips, turned it around and moved it back up to my sensitive place, I felt the hardness of the wooden handle and I instinctively whispered, “Yes.”
He rubbed it back and forth along my slit several times making contact with my sensitive spot every time. He would slide in down between my legs further and further until on the last time, he stopped the rubbing and began to insert it directly into my hole down at my private parts. I stiffened and held my breath and felt it start to penetrate up my canal. I was shocked by his progress and stunned by the feeling of this foreign object running up inside of me. I remembered to breathe again just as it hit something that sent a jolt of pain through my body and I cried out, “Oh Master, it hurts!”
“I know my Child, you have to experience some pain. It will hurt just a little and then you will feel better,” he said as he continued to press on with the brush. He was right; there was a lot of pain. So much so that I recoiled from it by trying to back away, but the other hand that he placed my hip prevented me from withdrawing from it entirely. But after the initial pain threshold was broken, it began to feel much better and as he withdrew the handle nearly out of my opening, he gently reinserted it by sliding it up to the depth he had measured with his hand. He began sliding it in and out with more speed and force. I never felt any pain again; in fact the opposite is true; I started feeling a great deal of pleasure out of having this thing slid in and out of my opening. So much so, I was starting to breathe very heavily, almost in a panting way, and my knees were starting to feel kind of weak.
I started to feel real funny down in my cunny, not from the brush handle being pumped in and out of it, but something very different. It was like a growing sensation that emanating from deep within myself; a growing need that seemed to be unquenchable. It kept building and building as if I was about to explode and then as it reached a crescendo of emotional build up, I released it all out of my hole; a gigantic, quivering mass of emotions, desires and expectations, all co-mingling into a convulsive release. I shook as I wondered what was happening to me. I let out a cry from my lips that someone walking down the side walk could have easily heard. He continued to impale the brush handle deep within me and then slowly started to slow down. As he withdrew the handle of the brush from my opening, I fell to my knees give out and rolled up into a fetal position, grinding my arms between my legs in an effort to prolong the sensation coming out of my cunny. I rocked myself gently until the feelings subsided and then I had a sudden urge to sleep. When I awoke, I found that he had left; I was all alone there on the pedestal, naked, curled up in a ball. I sat up, covered my nakedness with the clothes that were thrown around and went in to get dressed.
As I wander through the gallery, searching for a familiar face in the crowd, I keep seeing smiling faces mouthing words like “Beautiful work” and “Loved your emotion” and wonder who these people are. They are here to see me and a collection of my work, but to actually talk to me as if we were great friends seems rather ridiculous. But I feel warm; sweaty warm, I need some air. Oh my God, here comes that incredible bore Alex Something or other.
“Alex darling,” as I stick my cheek out to be kissed. Here we go, now the party is starting to get to me.
“Oh Love, have you seen your exhibit yet, oh you must come and see; it’s just fabulous,” Alex was gushing all over himself, leading me to the adjoining room. As I enter, I am suddenly floored by this collection. It is most of my life’s work over the last 10 to 15 years. I am struck by the amount of it on display, my God; I haven’t seen some of these for over a decade. I look at this compilation and immediately start to reminisce about the people who bought each piece and the subject and the emotions I drew upon while painting them. I start to get choked up and aroused at the same time as I saw the eyes of the horse looking longingly at his rider. His eyes showed the excitement and anticipation of the impending mount onto its back. You could see in its quivering hide that excitement, that love he felt for his owner and his joy in the ride.
Then there was the landscape of the meadow whose trees had turned to a crimson red of fall. You could almost feel the cold of the frost as it glistened in the sunshine as it set over the horizon. There was a look of trust in the eyes and stature of the little boy awaiting the bus for the first day of school. You could see that he had his apprehensions but his trust of his mother came through in the end. All of the feelings that manifested themselves through my paintings were overwhelming. I was shocked to see them all at once like that and I felt humbled by the sight and yet, I had a strange feeling deep inside my stomach. It was an old friend raising its head to say hello.
I awoke on the fourth day with an uneasy feeling in my soul. I knew that it would be a turning point in my life. I had matured over night; I had grown up during the previous day and now I was about to face my destiny. I got dressed and went to the studio. I walked in to a vacant room, except for a display easel, two wrapped packages and a note addressed to me. I hurriedly opened the note and as I read it, I began to tear up and a drop fell down my cheek.
“I’m sorry that I am not here for your fourth and final session, My Child. But you see, I have nothing more to teach you. I have known from the very first time I saw your painting of the Saint Bernard puppy that you had all of the talent to succeed, all but one. That was the purpose of having you being my model. From the first day we met, I told you that you needed to insert your feelings into your work. I caused these feeling to come out of you in the best way I knew of; that is the sexual feelings of love, of desire, of wanting. When you learn to combine these with the most powerful feeling of all; the power of the feeling of satisfaction, then you will have something most artists will never experience. My hope is that you will find that feeling in your painting, Child. I now know you have it in you so go out and paint it! You’re Master”
I wept as I consumed his note and I reread it several times. Then I turned my attention to the two wrapped gifts he had left on the easel. I opened the first; a large canvas and looked at it in awe. It was a painting of a dancer resting on a bench. Her right knee was raised and her foot was sitting beside her on the bench, in her hand was a towel she had wiped the perspiration from her still glistening brow and she was holding a bottle of water in her other hand, down between her legs. She attire was appropriate to the activity by showing her wearing a loose fitting top, low cut, with tights and dance shoes. The look on her face was one of being tired but satisfied with her workout. She had a glow to her features that radiated contentment.
Although the outfit showed off her young body by draping over her developing curves, it was just a suggestion of being provocative. Her tights clung tightly to her legs but at her crotch, there was nothing but your imagination that would raise eyebrows. Overall, it was suggestive in my mind only. I opened the other gift left behind by The Master. It was the #12 bright Sable haired brush with the thick wooden handle. It could only be meant for me. I loved it.
The emotion started to well in me as I gaze over my accumulated work. I can remember every single emotional stimulus that I used with each piece of work and it was always something sexual. As I dwelt on each one, I started getting aroused. The tingling started deep within my groin as I remembered. The satisfaction rose in my body and all of a sudden, I felt the trickle of my fluids escape down my leg. I had to find a bathroom.
I spotted the ladies room and headed in that direction; my juices flowing freely now. I was panting as I grabbed my purse and felt the familiar object in it. I knew right then that I was going to enjoy this show, I felt the familiar feel of my #12 bright Sable brush, waiting to be used again.